


There's Trouble in the Air

by aidennestorm



Series: We Keep Living [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Gen, Lack of Communication, M/M, Pining, Rank Disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 03:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Hamilton finds that the gravity isn't the only thing that goes inexplicably awry on the U.S.S. Nelson.





	There's Trouble in the Air

By the time Hamilton floats his way to the bridge, summoned from his off-duty shift by his captain, he’s hit his head on three walls, bruised his tailbone on the ceiling, and narrowly avoided collisions with no less than five of his crewmates. The turbolifts, of course, aren’t designed to function in zero-g, and the general access shafts are awkwardly placed to either side of the doors— so when Hamilton releases the top rung of one of the ladders, tries to pivot the other direction, he gives the movement too much vigor and tilts forward before he can try to steady himself. His arms flail, ungainly and frantic, and it’s only Washington’s sudden steadying grasp on his biceps that stops him from careening into a full spin.

“Easy, Lieutenant,” Washington murmurs. “I need you here coordinating, not wiping out on my bridge before you get the chance.”

Hamilton feels the flush creeping over his face, utter mortification that already has him mentally drafting plans to resign his commission and fling himself out the nearest airlock. But before he has to resort to such drastic measures, he realizes that his captain is _smiling._ It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s a glimpse of mirth amidst the chaos onboard, and Hamilton can’t help but laugh in sheer, breathless relief.

(And that he’s breathless for other reasons, too, well… nobody needs to know.)

“Doctor Schuyler would have both our heads if anyone else gets sent to sickbay, sir.”

“Indeed.” Washington’s eyes are light as he releases Hamilton carefully; Hamilton misses the strong, firm warmth of his hands as soon as they’re gone. “Station, Hamilton.”

Hamilton reluctantly turns away and maneuvers to the communication console, somewhat gracefully after Washington’s intervention but mostly by clinging to any nearby surface he can grab. He allows himself the tiniest smirk when he notices the incessant flickering of the engineering comm light, putting his earpiece into place and opening the channel just in time to hear cursing.

_“—this is what happens when they don’t allow their flagship to have some goddamn requisition stops—”_

“Our ears are burning up here, Schuyler,” Hamilton says dryly. “When are we going to see that gravity?”

_“I’d know better if I’d get the proper resources to do my job!”_

“How _long?”_

Peggy sighs; the comm crackles. _"Three hours, maybe. I’ve got grav-boots being distributed among my staff so we can work, but we don’t have enough to go around for all departments. Thank God we’re in Federation space.”_

“Don’t thank God, thank your insightful, forward-thinking bridge crew that refused to be sent to deep space when they realized that we weren’t getting those goddamn requisition stops.” Hamilton retorts, though there’s no real bite to it. “Need an update every thirty.”

_“Please, and you_ wish. _Schuyler out.”_

_“Please,”_ Hamilton begs, deliberately pitching his voice high and a little whiny, rewarded with Peggy’s snicker before the line falls silent. He looks over his shoulder to give Washington his report but the words stumble on his tongue when he sees Washington staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face, all amusement forgotten.

He feels compelled to apologize, though he doesn’t know _why_ — he regularly says and does worse in more dire circumstances, and Washington has never cared so long as he could get the job done (and Hamilton has always, _always_ gotten the job done). But Hamilton swallows, unsettled, and says no more than, “Schuyler’s estimation is three hours, Captain. I’ll have more information for you at the next check in.”

Washington’s answering nod is curt. Hamilton turns back to his console to the feeling of Washington's eyes heavy on his back, and answers the rest of the waiting calls in subdued silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dreamlittleyo for the prompt words sheer, gravity, and resource-- and for the nudge to get this edited and posted. :) You can also find me on [tumblr!](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com)


End file.
